Corpses are cold in the tomb;
Stones on the pavement are dumb;
Abortions are dead in the womb,
And their mothers look pale-like the death-white shore
Of Albion, free no more.
Her sons are as stones in the way-
They are masses of senseless clay-
They are trodden, and move not away,-
The abortion with which SHE travaileth
Is Liberty, smitten to death.