By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp
  Moist and damp;
And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,
  Don't agree.

Once, two hundred 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 Peshawar 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 the days,
From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,
  Beat retreat;
For the country from Peshawar to Ceylon
  Was their own.
But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain
  For his gain.