I. br Corpses are cold in the tomb; br Stones on the pavement are dumb; br Abortions are dead in the womb, br And their mothers look pale—like the death-white shore br Of Albion, free no more. br br II. br Her sons are as stones in the way-- br They are masses of senseless clay-- br They are trodden, and move not away,-- br The abortion with which SHE travaileth br Is Liberty, smitten to death. br br III. br Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor! br For thy victim is no redresser; br Thou art sole lord and possessor br Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions—they pave br Thy path to the grave. br br IV. br Hearest thou the festival din br Of Death, and Destruction, and Sin, br And Wealth crying 'Havoc!' within? br ’Tis the bacchanal triumph that makes Truth dumb, br Thine Epithalamium. br br V.