I. <br />Corpses are cold in the tomb; <br />Stones on the pavement are dumb; <br />Abortions are dead in the womb, <br />And their mothers look pale—like the death-white shore <br />Of Albion, free no more. <br /> <br />II. <br />Her sons are as stones in the way-- <br />They are masses of senseless clay-- <br />They are trodden, and move not away,-- <br />The abortion with which SHE travaileth <br />Is Liberty, smitten to death. <br /> <br />III. <br />Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor! <br />For thy victim is no redresser; <br />Thou art sole lord and possessor <br />Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions—they pave <br />Thy path to the grave. <br /> <br />IV. <br />Hearest thou the festival din <br />Of Death, and Destruction, and Sin, <br />And Wealth crying 'Havoc!' within? <br />’Tis the bacchanal triumph that makes Truth dumb, <br />Thine Epithalamium. <br /> <br />V. <br />Ay, marry thy ghastly wife! <br />Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife <br />Spread thy couch in the chamber of Life! <br />Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant! and Hell be thy guide <br />To the bed of the bride!<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-written-during-the-castlereagh-administration/
