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'T was but the ruin of the bad,

The wasting of the wrong and ill; Whate'er of good the old time had Was living still.

Calm grew the brows of him I feared;

The frown which awed me passed away, And left behind a smile which cheered Like breaking day.

The grain grew green on battle-plains,

O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow; The slave stood forging from his chains The spade and plough.

Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay

And cottage windows, flower-intwined,
Looked out upon the peaceful bay
And hills behind.

Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red,
The lights on brimming crystal fell,
Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head
And mossy well.

Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope,
Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed,

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They

They turned to the Earth, but she frowns on her child;

turned to the Sea, and he smiled as of old:
Sweeter was the peril of the breakers white and wild,

Sweeter than the land, with its bondage and gold!

Bayard Taylor

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