The Slanderer Poem by Samuel Bamford

'Who steals my purse, steals trash: 'tis something, nothing;
Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he, that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.'—Shakspere.

Steal but a crust, and by the law
Thou punished art, of course;
But filch away a man's good name,
And who shall deem thee worse?
Go take a purse upon the road,
And banished thou shalt be;
But rob a man of honest fame,
And few will censure thee.
Nay, thou may'st kill, but mind thou stab
With private, deadly word;
And poisoning by slander
Is a murder not abhorred!
So robber, thief, and murderer,
With coward, too, combined,
Is the poison-breathing slanderer—
The pest of human kind.
And yet 'tis not the slanderer
We shun, like rabid hound;
It is the injured victim, sad
And lonely with his wound.
Ah! would not common-sense and barest
Justice both demand
That victim be restored, and taken
Kindly by the hand;
Whilst the execrable slanderer
Is hooted through the land,
Deep marked with lasting infamy's
Unmitigable brand.