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Sub pondere crescit.

Can this be he, whose morning footstep trod
O'er the green earth as in a regal home?
Whose voice rang out beneath the skyey dome
Like the high utterance of a youthful god?

Now with wan looks and eyes that seek the sod,
Restless and purposeless as ocean foam,
Across the twilight fields I see him roam
With shoulders bowed, as shrinking from the rod.

Oh lift the old-time light within thine eyes!
Set free the pristine passion from thy tongue!
Strength grows with burdens; make an end of sighs.

Let thy thoughts soar again their mates among,
And as yon oriole's eager matins rise,
Abroad once more be thy strong anthem flung!

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