In their pages to give thee a line?
Where are they—Macaulay or Lingard—
Thy tale and thy troubles to write?
Would they touch and cry “faugh!” as they fingered?
Would they turn from the sight?
Thou shalt change, and the rot and the canker
Make mock of thy beauty and bloom;
Thou shalt swell with thy gases, and ranker
And ranker shall grow thy perfume.
We shall fade, and diminish, and perish,