In hearts like thine ne’er may I hold a place
Till I renounce all sense, all shame, all grace—
That seat,—like seats, the bane of Freedom’s realm,
But dear to those presiding at the helm—
Is basely purchased, not with gold alone;
Add Conscience, too, this bargain is your own—
‘T is thine to offer with corrupting art
The rotten borough of the human heart.
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog