Degenerate ?

Aetas parentûm, pejor avis, dedit
Nos nequiores, mox daturos
Progeniem vitiosiorem.
Horace .
Of old sang Horace in his bantering vein1
That every age gives birth to yet a worse ;2
It was the time when a slow-ripened curse3
Brake on the ancient world, and men were fain4
To veil with laughter hearts which heaved in pain.5
But the new era entered to reverse6
That heartless presage, and our England knows7
A law more fruitful. In her Abbey fane,8
Where she has gathered under one proud roof9
The rich memorials of her growing state,10
Among the noble dead in serried rows11
That line the sacred walls, all laureate,12
Stand the three Cannings, as a double proof13
That a great sire may boast a son as great.14