THIS mighty empire hath but feet of clay:
 Of all its ancient chivalry and might
 Our little island is forsaken quite:
 Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,
 And from its hills that voice hath passed away
 Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,
 Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit
 For this vile traffic-house, where day by day
 Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,
 And the rude people rage with ignorant cries
 Against an heritage of centuries.
 It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art
 And loftiest culture I would stand apart,
 Neither for God, nor for his enemies.