THE type has never perished from the earth, But has come down these twenty centuries Through ancient lands, across the western seas, Wherever God's new races found a birth; To-day his shriveled soul, devoid of mirth, Eager to sell his Christ for paltry fees And plunge the world in sadder tragedies, Is seen still plotting for the silver's worth: But all too slowly does his judgment come, And all too often we accord him praise; So masterly he barters for the sum, We scarcely know Judas of ancient days, We heed the silver, not the odium And dark design of his Satanic ways. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HOMES OF ENGLAND by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS TOM DEADLIGHT by HERMAN MELVILLE IMITATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE: A STORM by JOHN ARMSTRONG TO MRS. MARISSAL by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ECLOGUE: THE 'LOTMENTS by WILLIAM BARNES TO HELEN KELLER by FRANCES BEEBE ON THE WATERFRONT by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |