POETRY.
THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY.
WOULD yon, my friend, a modern Idol be ; Sit high enthron'd for all the world to see; Shoot regal tigers in far Eastern lands Or sip your wine to strains of German bands ; Receive fat legacies from rich old maids (They come in handy when one's glory fades); Be tipp'd the wink by those who think they know When shares are like to have a "bully" go; Pocket for yours four hundred quid a year With naught to do but groan or shout "Hear, hear !"
Then leap from post to post, each giddy stage (Now don't be lrighten'd, 'tis Trade Union wage) A rise of quite a thousand pounds or more The panacea to soothe your every sore ?
You would? Then hie away to some big place That teems with lowly toilers of our race ; Propound to them those airy social schemes They've never thought of in their wildest dreams ; Serve up in modern guise the old, old bluff; They'll swallow all and never have enough— For men who are not prone to weighty thought With specious words full oft are easy caught. Promise a fruitful paradise on earth, Leila-work, more pay, and benefits from birth, And with a modicum of what's called luck Success will crown your enterprise and pluck, And you will blaze upon a world intent A prophet, God-like creature, Heaven-sent.
You'll take your place among your fellow-gods, But oft, at calculated periods, Descend from stately, calm, Olympian heights To prate of Justice and the Poor Man's rights.
You'll never tell him that his discontent . • Is your great stepping-stone to betterment- 'Twonid vex his simple, unsuspecting mind,
Indeed, the very thought is too unkind—
But you can tell him he's the Rich Man's slave, And sow the hate he'll carry to the grave; Embitter all his We, make him a rogue That you yourself may have a passing vogue.
A passing vogue, no more, for time will tell If 'twere for love of him you cast your spell.
If not, though men may threaten you and jeer, It's more than those who live you'll have to fear.
'Tie those who shall come after you and me—
Who'll read in the cold script of history The man you were—who'll learn to loathe your name And curse you as the harbinger of shame. T. F. DELO.
Previous page
