POPULO.
Ne'er have I stooped to pipe, o public of the day,
For thine indifference,
Nor ever was of those the mountebank who play,
To stir thy dullard sense.
Well wist I of the price which he must pay perforce,
Who dares to hold aloof
From thy dull marts and feasts, who scorns thy vain discourse,
Thy blame and thine approof.
I knew thou holdst the keys of earthly good and ill,
That those who flatter not
Thy foolishness nor fawn on thine unreasoning will
Have here a lonely lot;
That they must look to pass their lives in gloom and cold,
From all that they have sown
But Sad Content, at best, to reap and to grow old,
Unfriended and alone.
The unspeakablest of sins, the unpardonable crime,
Lése-majesté in chief,
It is one's way to go nor halloo with the time's
Base joy and senseless grief.
Rob, murder, slander, forge, lie, wanton; yet no stroke
Of blame on you shall fall,
So but you bend your neck beneath the general yoke
And do as others all.
All else may pardoned be; but he his life who lives,
Who breathes with his own breath,
The sin unspeakable commits, which none forgives,
And hated is to death.
This all I knew and made my choice to be of those
Who will not wear thy chain:
The ways of thy mislike, not of thy praise, I chose
And yet would choose again.
For those whom thou hast banned in every age and clime
Are hallowed of thy hate;
The cause o'er thee they've won in the High Court of Time
And left those desolate
Whom thou with thine approof exaltedst to the skies
And who, to judgment brought,
Must shrink, without appeal, back from that stern assize
Into their native nought.
The same art thou as those, Ben Jonson heretofore
To Shakspeare who preferred,
Who hailed Béranger king, in triumph Musset bore
And Gautier left unheard,
Who suffered Schubert starve and passing Berlioz by,
The feet of Auber kissed,
Tchaikowsky, Dvorak, Brahms, applauded to the sky
And scorned tbe name of Liszt.
So look thou not for me to be of those who pipe
For thee to dance unto:
None am I of the base lickspittle gutter-snipe,
The vulgar, venal crew,
That kiss thy foolish feet and please thine idiot pride,
So on thy meat and wine
They may feed full and in thy praise's chariots ride
And fatten with thy swine.
Far rather the dry bread of poverty I'd eat
Than batten on thy love;
The cup of water cold of freedom I hold sweet,
Thy richest wines above.
Far rather would I see thee spit upon my name
Than be of thine elect;
Far fainer be of those who're belted with thy blame
And crowned with thy neglect.
