An American Error

Enter a Chorus, beholding the Republic as a cracked glass.

Behold the man, not monster, but a mirror, Wherein an age, long sick yet self-amazed, Doth spy its own deformity and cry, “Lo, greatness!”

He is no thunderbolt from heaven cast, But weather bred within the common air: Distrust made flesh, grievance given tongue, Ambition taught to strut in borrowed gold.

The people, wounded, hungry to be seen, Did seek a king who spoke their inward noise; And he, perceiving hunger in the wound, Made banquet of it.

Thus is the tragedy not his alone. For when a realm loves mirrors more than truth, The glass need only flatter, crack, and shine.