Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away
        From these white cliffs, and high embattled-towers;
        This gorgeous fiery-colored world of ours
Seems fallen into ashes dull and gray,
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!