Classic Poem

A weapon that comes down as still
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will
As lightning does the will of God;
And from its force, nor doors nor locks
Can shield you; — 't is the ballot-box.

Black as your deed shall be the balls
That from that box shall pour like hail!
And, when the storm upon you falls,
How will your craven cheeks turn pale!
For, at its coming though ye laugh,
'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff.

Not women, now, — the people pray.
Hear us, — or from us ye will hear!
Beware! — a desperate game ye play!
The men that thicken in your rear, —
Kings though ye be, — may not be scorned.
Look to your move! your stake! — Y E 'RE WARNED !

A weapon that comes down as still
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will
As lightning does the will of God;
And from its force, nor doors nor locks
Can shield you; — 't is the ballot-box.

Black as your deed shall be the balls
That from that box shall pour like hail!
And, when the storm upon you falls,
How will your craven cheeks turn pale!
For, at its coming though ye laugh,
'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff.

Not women, now, — the people pray.
Hear us, — or from us ye will hear!
Beware! — a desperate game ye play!
The men that thicken in your rear, —
Kings though ye be, — may not be scorned.
Look to your move! your stake! — Y E 'RE WARNED !