quantia

Leviathan breaks his chains,

spreads white wings above the foam,

sweeps all debris from the deck.

With all but heaven below,

the light on his waxing wings

lingers in their lead feathers.

Thunder behind the sails,

this ship of state commanded

by mighty arms drives forward

to wrest heavenly mandate

from out the grove of Ares.

In our tranquil agora

under giant folded wings

we may wage smaller battles.

On bright Aeropagus hill,

brother against brother may

turn, with words alone, to speak

ill of good, or good of ill,

on pain of nought but error.

Where false words are met with swords

go not, or go armed alike.

Prepare for war and hope it

comes not to your quiet shores.

The crown that plays a dentist,

and wars against our speaking

may find defanged creatures

dig deeper yet when clawing.

A state that cannot live in

the presence of its subjects

without complete declawing

has still greater things to fear.

Hatred of the whole by parts

will not diminish in peace;

false harmony will foment

a want for oceans of blood.

Nature, to be commanded,

demands his strict obeisance.

Better the little battles,

the scratches of fang and claw,

to sculpt his mighty visage.

Eroded by these forces,

the cutting keel drives onward,

the sails make jets of storms,

the boards need no replacement

from our freedom’s bloody tree.