  Give me a wide and noble field Where I may perish decently! O let me in this narrow world Of shops be not condemned to die! They eat full well, they drink full well, And revel in their mole-like bliss; Their magnanimity’s as great As any poor-box opening is. Cigars they carry in their mouths, Their hands we in their breeches view, And their digestive powers are great,— O could we but digest them too! They trade in every spice that grows Upon the earth, yet we can trace, Despite their spices, in the air The odour of a grovelling race. Could I some great transgressions, yes, Colossal bloody crimes but see,— Aught but this virtue flat and tame, This solvent strict morality! Ye clouds on high, O bear me hence, To some far spot without delay! To Lapland or to Africa, To Pomerania e’en—away! O bear me hence!—They hearken not— The clouds on high so prudent are! They fly above this town, to seek With trembling haste some region far. |
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