The Straight Road

The cynic scoffs, as he ever scoffed
   Thro' many a storm-racked age,
When the fight is on, and the gloves are off
   And the politicians rage;
And he sneers at their paltry party tricks,
   And speaks with a voice unkind
Of the crooked road of politics
   And the statesman's crooked mind.

"Birds of a feather," the cynic says,
   "All by the pitch defiled:
Treading the sophist's devious ways,
   By the lust for power beguiled;
All dishonoured, and all foresworn
   In the sight of honest men,
To be in the end a nation's scorn
   Ere they pass from human ken."

Yet, once in a while is a nation served
   By other men than these,
And the honor of a land preserved,
   Thro' a host of calumnies -
By men who cannot be suborned
   By power, or place, or pay;
But, by truth's shining light adorned,
   Hold to the fair, straight way.

'Tis then that a breath of clean, sweet air
   Thro' the murk of politics
Blows thro' the whole land, to lay bare
   The sophist's paltry tricks.
And borne upon that honest breeze
   Comes this to ease our dole:
"The land that holds such men as these
   Has not yet lost its soul."