TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE

by: Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)

      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 from the French?
       
      America salutes you--
      Preparing to "disgorge."
      Take everything that suits you,
      And marry Henry George.

"To the Bartholdi Statue" is reprinted from The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce Vol. IV: Shapes of Clay. Ambrose Bierce. New York: Neale Publishing Company, 1910.

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