Classic Poem

No more a word I 'll sing or say
Of Turnham Green , or Swansea Bay ;
The Muse another story tells,
Her present love is Tunbridge Wells .

To Indolence, with heart serene,
Apollo dedicates the scene;
A mind that vacancy repels
Is best away from Tunbridge Wells .

Oblivion buries in repose
The debts and cares that Avarice knows;
The keepsake has a thousand spells
For hands and hearts in Tunbridge Wells .

The Goddess of the mineral spring
Has rosy health upon her wing;
Each cup the appetite impels,
No better cook for Tunbridge Wells .

The morning's letters, or the news,
A short and listless hour amuse:
In vain abroad the battle swells,
It 's a mere novel at the Wells .

The war is mere spectâcle here,
In pantomime its troops appear;
And Fame , that Victory foretells,
Is Lady Burges at the Wells .

We lay to-morrow on the shelf,
And leave the future to itself;
No dreams but of the beaux and belles
Disturb the nights of Tunbridge Wells .

Ambition, that in Town we knew,
With Fame has nothing here to do;
And many a dangler Pitt excels
In making speeches at the Wells .

The Novel's interest perplext
(Though, ripe for comments on the text,
Miss on the warm description dwells)
Is mere amusement at the Wells .

But Pleasure's throne is at the ball;
It cheers both ages with its call:
And churl is he who then rebels,
Or dreads the caps that grace the Wells .

It 's true, that Sunday sheds its gloom
Upon a venerable Room;
But gloom that Monday soon dispels,
And five days more of Tunbridge Wells .

Nor Lethe fills the cup alone;
She makes the sandy ride her own:
The horse its Amazon expels,
To pace a donkey at the Wells .

No Rocks are found but in their stone,
And they are picturesque alone;
We have (it 's true) Monastic Cells,
But they are playthings, near the Wells .

From rising to the setting sun
The business here is to have none:
The wise can play with Folly's bells;
Time had no lodging at the Wells.