Explore "To the Bartholdi Statue" by Ambrose Bierce on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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 from the French?
America salutes you -- / Preparing to disgorge.
Take everything that suits you, / And marry Henry George.
1894