vain competitive excuse

yours is the echo of the last complaint
we do not ask just how it came to fade
upon this soil so many were betrayed
and their words come to us in manner faint
we don't expect to find a simple taint
on anything that we would want now made
for this is where things properly arrayed
are to be brought we blame only the saint
for what we are become this much is true
there are so many urgencies to make
the centre not so much what we require
of all the places where good things accrue
this one alone we cannot soon forsake
but now we are supposed to yield the fire