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Normale Version: THE BALLOT.
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THE BALLOT.

Lest in each vein thenceforth a poison flow,
Making thee one pale mass of quickening ill,
Rife with new monsters 'neath the Moon, until
In some prodigious night a Caesar grow ;
England, abjure the voice, that loud, or low,
With subtle change as if 'twere natural, still
Urges " The Ballot" on thy feverish will;
Thy rights of old were never conquered so :
But men in whom Plantagenet's red blood
Ran bright, or Tudor's, on their cousin kings
Looked sternly, and for popular rights upstood.
Time changes all—if it hath changed these things,
Oh see not yet, within a box of wood,
A place for Peace to fold her famous wings.