God said: I am tired of kings;
I suffer them no more;
Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.
Think ye I have made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?
My angel--his name is Freedom--
Choose him to be your king.
He shall cut pathways east and west
And fend you with his wing.
I will never have a noble;
No lineage counted great,
Fishers and choppers and plowmen
Shall constitute a state,
And ye shall succor man,
'Tis nobleness to serve;
Help them who cannot help again;
Beware from right to swerve.
_Ralph Waldo Emerson._