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 centurie
    It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art
    And loftiest culture I would stand apart,
    Neither for God, nor for his enemie 