Classic Poem

Saint George's Fields are fields no more,
The trowel supersedes the plough;
Huge inundated swamps of yore,
Are changed to civic villas now.

The builder's plank, the mason's hod,
Wide, and more wide extending still,
Usurp the violated sod,
From Lambeth Marsh , to Balaam Hill ,

Pert poplars, yew trees, water tubs,
No more at Clapham meet the eye,
But velvet lawns, Acacian shrubs,
With perfume greet the passer by.

Thy carpets, Persia, deck our floors,
Chintz curtains shade the polish'd pane,
Virandas guard the darken'd doors,
Where dunning Phaebus knocks in vain.

Not thus acquir'd was G RESHAM 's hoard,
Who founded L ONDON 's mart of trade;
Not such thy life, Grimalkin 's lord,
Who Bow's recalling peal obey'd.

In Mark or Mincing Lane confin'd,
In cheerful toil they pass'd the hours;
'Twas theirs to leave their wealth behind,
To lavish, while we live, is ours.

They gave no treats to thankless kings;
Many their gains, their wants were few;
They built no house with spacious wings,
To give their riches pinions too.

Yet sometimes leaving in the lurch
Sons, to luxurious folly prone,
Their funds rebuilt the parish church —
Oh! pious waste, to us unknown.

We from our circle never roam,
Nor ape our sires' eccentric sins;
Our charity begins at home,
And mostly ends where it begins.