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.