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Ambrose Bierce - To The Bartholdi Statue
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O Liberty, God-gifted—
     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.
   Austere incendiary,
    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 halters
    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.
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