Classic Poem

In this vain, busy world, where the good and the gay
By affliction or folly wing moments away;
Where the false are respected, the virtuous betrayed,
Where Vice lives in sunshine, and Genius in shade;
With a soul-sickened sadness all changes I see,
For the world, the base world, has no pleasure for me!

In cities, where wealth loads the coffers of pride,
Where talents and sorrow are ever allied;
Where dullness is worshipped, and wisdom despised,
Where none but the empty and vicious are prized;
All scenes with disgust and abhorrence I see,
For the world has no corner of comfort for me!

While pale Asiatics, encircled with gold,
The sons of meek Virtue indignant behold;
While the tithe-pampered churchman reviles at the poor,
As the lorn, sinking traveller faints at his door;
While Custom dares sanction Oppression's decree —
Oh, keep such hard bosoms, such monsters, from me!

While the flame of a Patriot expires in the breast,
With ribbands, and tinsel, and frippery dressed;
While Pride mocks the children of Want and Despair,
Gives a sneer for each sigh, and a smile for each prayer;
Though he triumph his day, a short day it must be —
Heaven keep such cold tyrants, oh, keep them from me!

While the lawyer still lives by the anguish of hearts,
While he wrings the wronged bosom, and thrives as it smarts;
While he grasps the last guinea from Poverty's heir,
While he revels in splendour which rose from Despair;
While the tricks of his office our scourges must be,
Oh, keep the shrewd knave and his quibbles from me!

While the court breeds the sycophant, trained to ensnare;
While the prisons re-echo the groans of Despair;
While the State deals out taxes, the Army dismay;
While the rich are upheld, and the poor doomed to pay;
Humanity saddens with pity to see
The scale of injustice, and trembles like me!

While patriots are slandered, and venal slaves rise;
While Power grows a giant, and Liberty dies;
While a phantom of Virtue o'er Energy reigns,
And the broad wing of Freedom is loaded with chains;
While War spreads its thunders o'er land and o'er sea,
Ah, who but can listen and murmur like me?

While the bosom which loves, and confesses its flame,
By the high-titled female is branded with shame;
While a coronet hides what the humble despise,
And the lowly must fall that the haughty may rise;
Oh, who can the triumphs of infamy see,
Nor shrink from the reptiles, and shudder like me?

Ah world, thou vile world, how I sicken to trace
The anguish that hourly augments for thy race!
How I turn from the worst, while I honour the best,
The enlightened adore, and the venal detest!
And, oh! with what joy to the grave would I flee —
Since the world, the base world has no pleasure for me.