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!