Classic Poem

For aught that's nice
You pay a price .

Yes, things that you have won, and praise,
Your dear forefathers never knew,
As heat or winter led them through
Their homely life, in homely ways.
You swiftly rush in railway cars
Where they once rode on horses' backs,
Or your wheels spin on rising bars,
Though theirs roll'd on in rutty tracks.
But you for good things pay their cost,
And still, for what you gain'd, have lost,

The higher has become your speed
The stronger are your calls for haste;
Wealth's quicker streams in more ways waste,
The more you have the more you need.
Your fathers trode on English dust,
And while you, o'er the world, will roam,
The more you roam, the more you must,
From irksomeness of any home.
Whatever changes you may choose,
And something gain, you something lose.

Your fathers o'er your downs might rove
Where roadless turf was each man's way;
But you may rarely dare to stray
Beyond the bank'd and narrow drove.
Where they on commons only saw
The worded guidepost's friendly rail,
Now uncouth boards, with threats of law,
Growl, " No road here, but to the jail."
Improvements all are somehow crossed,
In what is gained, by something lost.

Where slopes of lately heath-land sink
Well shows the turnip's glossy green;
But there will now no more be seen
The wide-spread heather-bloom of pink.
Fell woods, your shield from wind and heat,
And you must meet the weather's strokes;
Or turn the oak-grove to a street,
And smoking tuns will cost the oaks.
Give night with day to toil for wealth,
And then your gain will cost your health.

To buy new gold
Give up some old .