Once, two hundered years ago, the trader came
                     Meek and tame.
Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,
                     Till mere trade
Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth
                     South and North
Till the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
                     Was his own.
Thus the midday halt of Charnock—more’s the pity!—
                     Grew a City.
As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,
                     So it spread—
Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built
                     On the silt—
Palace, byre, hovel—poverty and pride—
                     Side by side;
And, above the packed and pestilential town,
                     Death looked down.

But the Rulers in that City by the Sea
                     Turned to flee—
Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its ills
                     To the Hills.
From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze
                     Of old days,
From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,
                     Beat retreat;
For the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
                     Was their own.
But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain
                     For his gain.
Now the resting-place of Charnock, ’neath the palms,
                     Asks an alms,
And the burden of its lamentation is,
                    Briefly, this:
“Because for certain months, we boil and stew,
                     So should you.
Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire
                     In our fire!”
And for answer to the argument, in vain
                     We explain
That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot cry:—
                     “All must fry!”
That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain
                     For gain.
Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,
                     From its kitchen.

Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints
                     In his prints;
And mature—consistent soul—his plan for stealing
                     To Darjeeling:
Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,
                     England’s isle;
Let the City Charnock pitched on—evil day!—
                     Go Her way.
Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors
                     Heap their stores,
Though Her enterprise and energy secure
                     Income sure,
Though “out-station orders punctually obeyed”
                     Swell Her trade—
Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,
                     Simla’s best.