Old wood has blossoms of this sort.
Though sound at core, she is old wood.
If freemen hate her, one retort
She has; but one!—‘You are my blood.’
XXXV
A poet, half a prophet, rose
In recent days, and called for power.
I love him; but his mountain prose—
His Alp and valley and wild flower—
XXXVI
Proclaimed our weakness, not its source.
What medicine for disease had he?
Whom summoned for a show of force?
Our titular aristocracy!
XXXVII
Why, these are great at City feasts;
From City riches mainly rise:
’Tis well to hear them, when the beasts
That die for us they eulogize!
XXXVIII
But these, of all the liveried crew
Obeisant in Mammon’s walk,
Most deferent ply the facial screw,
The spinal bend, submissive talk.