To Milton

Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away

    From these white cliffs, and high embattled towers;

    This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours

Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,

And the age changed unto a mimic play

    Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:

    For all our pomp and pageantry and powers

We are but fit to delve the common clay,

Seeing this little isle on which we stand,

    This England, this sea-lion of the sea,

    By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,

Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land

    Which bare a triple empire in her hand

    When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!