Wilde, Oscar. 1881. Poems.

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,                   10
            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!