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 into a mimic play
Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:
For all our pomp and pageantry of 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?