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.