And hast thou won thy rest, O Mary Page,
and shall thy crystal fountains spring no more
that for a hand of twelve-months didst thou pour
full generous, London's aching thirst to assuage?
Thy waters swelled the placid Fleet to rage
and storm through Clerkenwell with mighty roar
drowning the mudlarks, sluicing clean the gore
and filth of Smithfield's sinister carnage.
Let him consider how thy life was spent
who shares with thee this nonconformist ground.
Dryness his watchword, stern restraint his bent,
his to proselytise and thine to yield
fruit of thy being. May thy burial mound
nourish the eager roots of Bunhill Field.