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.