Oscar Wilde — To Milton

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!