I crave an ampler, worthier sphere: I'd liefer bleed at every vein Than stifle 'mid these hucksters here, These lying slaves of paltry gain. They eat, they drink; they're every whit As happy as their type, the mole; Large are their bounties -- as the slit Through which they drop the poor man's dole. With pipe in mouth they go their way, With hands in pockets; they are blest With grand digestions: only they Are such hard morsels to digest! The hand that's red with some dark deed, Some giant crime, were white as wool Compared with these sleek saints, whose creed Is paying all their debts in full. Ye clouds that sail to far-off lands, O waft me to what clime ye will! To Lapland's snows, to Lybia's sands, To the world's end -- but onward still! Take me, O clouds! They ne'er look down; But (proof of a discerning mind) One moment hung o'er Hamburg town, The next they leave it leagues behind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAREWELL TO MALTA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON DANUBE AND THE EUXINE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY: ACT 1, SCENE 1 by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES COUPLETS IN PRAISE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT TO ONE WHO HAD LEFT HER CONVENT TO MARRY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ON JOHN DOVE [JOHNNY DOW], INNKEEPER OF MAUCHLINE by ROBERT BURNS |