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This mighty empire hath but feet of clay:

Of all its ancient chivalry and might
Our little island is forsake 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.