In time our hero weds A woman like himself, and little heads Soon run about a house or pleasant yard. He must work now to keep them--have regard To the community, its thoughts and ways. What church is here? He finds it best to praise Its pastor and its flock, his children send To Sunday school, if never he attend Its services. What politics obtain? He must support the tussock leaf campaigns If he would eat himself. ’Tis best to join The party which controls the greater coin. And so what is his party’s interest In business? There must his soul invest Its treasure till the two are wholly one. Like the poor prostitute he is undone In virtue not alone, but he has made Himself a cog-wheel in the filthy trade Of justice courts, police and graft in wine Bondsmen and lawyers with a strength malign Moving the silken vestured marionette To laugh, entice and play the sad coquette. Yet if for bread you are compelled to ask The giver may impose an evil task, Or terms of life. Would you retain a roof, Mix with the crowd, nor dare to stand aloof. Our hero sees this, wears a hopeful smile To cover up his spattered soul, and while Digesting wounded truth, hiding his thought, His own opinions, for his soul is caught Amid the idiot hands that strike and press-- One may glide through who learns to say yes, yes, While in heart-sickness whispering to himself: I do this for the children, and for pelf To keep the house and yard, the cupboard full. Some time I hope to free myself and pull My legs out of this social muck and mire. First money is, then freedom his desire, But often neither comes. If he win wealth He has become lead-poisoned, for by stealth The virus of the colors which he used To paint his life is spread and interfused In every vein. By ways complaisant Our hero has got gold from ignorant Vulgarian nondescripts, has entertained The odorous cormorants, and has profaned His household gods to keep them safe and whole Upon the altar--winning what a goal! For meantime in this living he has schooled His children in the precepts which have ruled His days from the beginning. They are bred His out-look to repeat, and even to tread The way he went amid the tangled wood In their own time and chosen neighborhood. What has our hero done? Why nothing more Than feed upon the beech leaves, gather store For children moths to feed on, and get strength To climb the branches and on leaves at length To feed of their own will. Is this a man? Is this your typical American? COME, REPUBLIC