Classic Poem

Thy world-wide fame doth sap thy splendid powers,
Is this the tongue that bleeding Poland sung!
Is this the poet whose quick-waking hours
Deep, richest changes on Liberty have rung!
The murky fogs of England drug thy soul,
Her fiery wings droop heavy and forlorn,
Mammon's smirch — proud Albion's curse and dole —
" The mark of the beast " is by thy banners borne.
A gang o' gamblers guides Britain's ship of state —
As bloody ruffians as e'er slit a throat —
To steal the brave Boer's gold wage they war of hate,
England's vile policy from times remote.
The stock exchange now meets in Downing Street,
At Cabinet councils Hell and demon greet.