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!