As If The World And They Were

As Creeping Ivy Clings To Wood Or Stone, And Hides The Ruin That It Feeds Upon, So Sophistry, Cleaves Close To, And Protects Sin's Rotten Trunk, Concealing Its Defects.

They Best Can Judge A Poet's Worth, Who Oft Themselves Have Known The Pangs Of A Poetic Birth By Labours Of Their Own.

Ten Thousand Casks, Forever Dribbling Out Their Base Contents, Touch'd By The Midas Finger Of The State, Bleed Gold For Ministers To Sport Away. Drink, And Be Mad Then; 'tis Your Country Bids!

Forced From Home, And All Its Pleasures, Afric Coast I Left Forlorn; To Increase A Stranger's Treasures, O The Raging Billows Borne. Men From England Bought And Sold Me, Paid My Price In Paltry Gold; But, Though Theirs They Have Enroll'd Me, Minds Are Never To Be Sold.

He Is The Freeman Whom The Truth Makes Free, And All Are Slaves Besides.