O Liberty, God-gifted-- <br /> Young and immortal maid-- <br /> In your high hand uplifted, <br /> The torch declares your trade. <br /> <br /> Its crimson menace, flaming <br /> Upon the sea and shore, <br /> Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming <br /> That Law shall be no more. <br /> <br /> Austere incendiary, <br /> We're blinking in the light; <br /> Where is your customary <br /> Grenade of dynamite? <br /> <br /> Where are your staves and switches <br /> For men of gentle birth? <br /> Your mask and dirk for riches? <br /> Your chains for wit and worth? <br /> <br /> Perhaps, you've brought the halters <br /> You used in the old days, <br /> When round religion's altars <br /> You stabled Cromwell's bays? <br /> <br /> Behind you, unsuspected, <br /> Have you the axe, fair wench, <br /> Wherewith you once collected <br /> A poll-tax for the French? <br /> <br /> America salutes you-- <br /> Preparing to 'disgorge.' <br /> Take everything that suits you, <br /> And marry Henry George.<br /><br />Ambrose Bierce<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-bartholdi-statue/
