Classic Poem

When in my walks I meet some ruddy lad
Or swarthy man, with tray-beladen head,
Whose smile entreats me, or his visage sad,
To buy the images he moulds for bread;

I think that, though his poor Greek Slave in chains,
His Venus and her Boy with plaster dart,
Be, like the organ-grinder's quavering strains,
But farthings in the currency of art;

Such coins a kingly effigy still wear,
Let metals base or precious in them mix;
The painted vellum hallows not the Prayer
Nor ivory nor gold the Crucifix.