Whilst piles of swiftly growing pelf,
Sweated from toil,
Swell for the lords of capital and soil,
Then—you may rear a city on foul slime,
And build Society on want and crime.
My Voice! Men will not listen—yet;
And when they open ears at last,
Bludgeon won’t cure, nor bayonet.
Meanwhile yon brayer at full blast
Belies my cause,