Classic Poem

GIN-PALACE Circe! quit the niche
Or den that constitutes my First ,
Nor from below, thou fair foul witch!
Call spirits baleful and accurs'd
She's gone! — Beware! your pouch to pick,
Yon crew throws dust into your eyes:
Distrust their flowers of rhetoric,
They garland whom they victimise.
Now to our dearest hopes opposed,
My changeful First! thou'rt all we dread;
And now, in solid gold disclosed,
How eagerly thou'rt coveted!
But ah! most fatal art thou when
Thou'rt formed beneath the 'whelming wave,
Of women fair and gallant men,
The Sacrificer and the grave!

The friend, the lover, are on thee,
My Second! source of many a tear,
When their vex'd souls they cannot free
From dark suspense, and jealous fear.
On thee, within his prison lone,
The doom'd assassin or the thief,
Vents, in his agony, the groan,
Or prays for death as a relief.
I see thee speeding overhead,
As if thou hadst an eagle's wing,
I see thee in the cattle shed,
A lifeless and unmoving thing,
My Third is fashion'd to enfold
Strange implements of war. — Behold
Those frames with human features;
By time and artificial means
They're manufactured to machines
For killing human creatures.
Obedient moves — east, west, north, south,
Up to the breach, or cannon's mouth:
Each automatic figure, —
'Gainst friend or foe, whate'er the cause,
With equal nonchalance he draws
His death dispensing-trigger
Enslaved alike in frame and mind,
Life's object for its means resign'd,
What gains th'unlucky varlet?
Dying, he sleeps on honours couch,
And living, flaunts with empty pouch,
In outward gold and scarlet.
Never were muscles, bones, and will,
By such self-sacrificing skill,
Made neuter, passive, active
Machine! thou'rt mechanism's pride,
But never was its art applied
To purpose less attractive!