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 Work the ruin, if ye will;
Pluck upon your heads an ill
Which shall grow and deepen still.
With your bondman's right arm bare,
With his heart of black despair,
Stand alone, if stand ye dare!
Onward with your fell design;
Dig the gulf and draw the line:
Fire beneath your feet the mine:
Deeply, when the wide abyss
Yawns between your land and this,
Shall ye feel your helplessness.
By the hearth, and in the bed,
Shaken by a look or tread,
Ye shall own a guilty dread.
And the curse of unpaid toil,
Downward through your generous soil
Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,
Vines our rocks shall overgrow,
Plenty in our valleys flow;—
And when vengeance clouds your skies,
Hither shall ye turn your eyes,
As the lost on Paradise!
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