An Ode to Trade

O restless Spirit, from whose cup All drink, and at whose feet all bow May I inquire what you are up To now? Insatiable, I know, your maw, And ravenous of old your shrine; But still, O Trade, you ought to draw The line. Our health, our pride, our every breath Of leisure—do not these suffice? Ah, tell me not you're also death On vice. Ah, tell me not yon gilded hell That has from boyhood soothed my grief Must fall into the sere and yellow leaf; That dens my wayward comrades know Must also share this cruel lot: That every haunt of sin must go To pot. I who have seen your roaring marts Engulf our aristocracy, Our poets, all who love the arts But me: I who have watched your bounteous purse Seduce, I say, the world's elect— I, in my clear and ringing verse, Object. You've stripped existence to the bone; You see us of all else bereft; You know quite well that vice alone Is left. You claim our every thought and prayer, Nor do we grudge the sacrifice. But worms will turn! You've got to spare Us vice