Young and immortal maid
In your high hand uplifted, The torch declares your trade.
Its crimson menace, flaming Upon the sea and shore, Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming
That Law shall be no more.
We’re blinking in the light; Where is your customary Grenade of dynamite?
Where are your staves and switches For men of gentle birth?
Your mask and dirk for riches?
Your chains for wit and worth?
Perhaps, you’ve brought the Walters
You used in the old days
When round religion’s altars
You stabled Cromwell’s bays?
Behind you, unsuspected,
Have you the axe, fair wench,
Wherewith you once collected
A poll-tax for the French?
America salutes you-
Preparing to ‘disgorge.’ Take everything that suits you, And marry Henry George. ~ To the Bartholdi Statue – Ambrose Bierce