16
To paint those cities, full of glittering treasure,
Those fine turns-out, that swarm of smart costumes,
That joy of life, its comfort, grace and leisure,
Those polished manners and assembly rooms.
Oh! I confess with shame, alas! we hairy ’uns,
Compared with them, are little but barbarians.
Like the brute beasts, who with us haunt the woods,
We’re only skilled to skip and climb and gobble.
On us, no ray of Progress e’er intrudes,
Nor poetry nor music us ennoble.
To us, the theatre’s scarce e’en a name;
And as for politics, saloons—O! Brahm!
What wonder if those apes of progress—or rest
E’en the mere name ape’s now tabooed as shocking.
The cultured race of man, then, looks down mocking
Upon his uncouth brethren of the forest:
Nay, ’tis but yesterday Cam’s glorious son dared,
After long ages, scornful, had denied it,
To own the kinship, by his great heart guided,
And what a storm of protest ’gainst him thundered!
But better I than he intend to show ’em
Our birth is one, and that the present chasm
That scorned, degraded brother now below ’em
Can span with ease and reach or perhaps surpass ’em.
When first, out yonder, pain and shame at heart, I
Compared our wretched lot with that of man,
A sudden flash within my temples ran,
And, in an instant, warmed my every part: ay,
That flash the germ was of a great idea
Which with the breath of blessed hope grew clear;
And now my guiding star before me burneth,
To which my glance enthusiastic turneth;
