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No, not Washington, springtide must end my brief lesson.
Sweetness of Nature alone for these woes can console us.
Blessed is he who takes comfort in seed-time and harvest,
Setting the warfare of life to the hymn of the seasons.
In the garden, the whispering walls are our refuge,
Closes with music its gate on the outer confusion.
The heaped green grasses rise up in their congregation
Lifting their heads to answer the sunshine with gladness.
Birdlings singing aloft in the blossom-hung branches,
Tell of the promise in which they bring up their young households,
Tell of the faith in which God has deserted them never.
So—we will lift our heads—these men too are our brothers—
They should be gathered with us in the fold of the Future.
Heaven enlighten their hearts, ere we close for the death-tug,
Flinging them far from our bounds with their wrath and their rapine,—
As the man tears from his side the beloved who betrays him,
Lest her soft vices insensibly ruin his virtue,
Lest he too fall, undermined by the white tooth of falsehood.
Keep the promise of Spring, O! thou Father of fathers—
Give us, great God, beyond these anarchic convulsions,
The high, synthetic repose of thy progress and order.
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