 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE MERCHANT PRINCE.
“I am a Merchant Prince, my sceptre is the pen
That governs thousands, since I learned to honour men—
The secret of their breasts, the weakness and the want,
Wherein my art invests all that may fools enchant,
I buy from cheapest mart and to the dearest sell,
And capital would part (if paying) unto hell;
Not at another's lamp I kindled this great light,
Which upon all I stamp, royal in my own right;
I built this glorious pile, raise fortunes at my nod,
Kings quarrel for my smile, myself I made—not God.
I am a Merchant Prince, and somehow sure to gain,
Nor do at losses wince, to bankrupt lands like Spain.”
But yet the hungry worms, that saw the foliage grey,
And smelled corruption's germs, were crawling to their prey.
That governs thousands, since I learned to honour men—
The secret of their breasts, the weakness and the want,
Wherein my art invests all that may fools enchant,
I buy from cheapest mart and to the dearest sell,
And capital would part (if paying) unto hell;
Not at another's lamp I kindled this great light,
Which upon all I stamp, royal in my own right;
I built this glorious pile, raise fortunes at my nod,
Kings quarrel for my smile, myself I made—not God.
I am a Merchant Prince, and somehow sure to gain,
Nor do at losses wince, to bankrupt lands like Spain.”
But yet the hungry worms, that saw the foliage grey,
And smelled corruption's germs, were crawling to their prey.
“Their monarchs made the rest, the precious pauper lord,
Who carved his eagle's nest by fire and bloody sword;
Who purchased, with his soul, the tinsel of a time,
By giving coward toll—a falsehood or a crime;
Who rose from native dust, by playing but the pimp
For royal ravening lust, through centuries to limp;
Who washed the dirty clothes of Princes, called his friends,
With ready lies and oaths, to serve their Princely ends;
Who trades upon the past, dishonour of a sire
That dragged a nation vast thro' meanness and thro' mire;
Whose glory even if true, from far-off ages thrown,
To worth ancestral due, can never be his own.”
But yet the greedy worms, that harry all things high,
If man a moment squirms, were darkly drawing nigh.
Who carved his eagle's nest by fire and bloody sword;
Who purchased, with his soul, the tinsel of a time,
By giving coward toll—a falsehood or a crime;
Who rose from native dust, by playing but the pimp
For royal ravening lust, through centuries to limp;
Who washed the dirty clothes of Princes, called his friends,
With ready lies and oaths, to serve their Princely ends;
Who trades upon the past, dishonour of a sire
That dragged a nation vast thro' meanness and thro' mire;
Whose glory even if true, from far-off ages thrown,
To worth ancestral due, can never be his own.”
But yet the greedy worms, that harry all things high,
If man a moment squirms, were darkly drawing nigh.
“I am a Merchant Prince, if peerage-books say no,
Which bastard matters mince to blaze a better show;
A hundred pathways speed my freightage through the lands,
To nourish empires' need and bear to distant strands;
My arms are iron roads outstretched from west to east,
Which scatter countless loads, that everyone may feast;
The greyhounds of the wave, which daily grow more fleet,
To link (where'er I crave) the countries, are my feet;
And make the wondrous wires, that marry north and south,
And flash my grand desires in many tongues, my mouth;
No sovereign, though he ride on ruin for an hour,
In all his empty pride, hath half my solid power.”
But yet the conquering worms, about his splendour wound,
That knew the final terms of things, were closing round.
Which bastard matters mince to blaze a better show;
A hundred pathways speed my freightage through the lands,
To nourish empires' need and bear to distant strands;
My arms are iron roads outstretched from west to east,
Which scatter countless loads, that everyone may feast;
The greyhounds of the wave, which daily grow more fleet,
To link (where'er I crave) the countries, are my feet;
436
And flash my grand desires in many tongues, my mouth;
No sovereign, though he ride on ruin for an hour,
In all his empty pride, hath half my solid power.”
But yet the conquering worms, about his splendour wound,
That knew the final terms of things, were closing round.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |