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     He can see the spirit kneeling
While the axe is swung.

Heeding truth alone, and turning
     From the false and dim,
Lamp of toil or altar burning
     Are alike to Him.
Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting
     On our rugged toil;
Far ships waiting for the freighting
     Of our woodland spoil!

Ships, whose traffic links these highlands,
     Bleak and cold, of ours,
With the citron-planted islands
     Of a clime of flowers;
To our frosts the tribute bringing
     Of eternal heats;
In our lap of winter flinging
     Tropic fruits and sweets.

Cheerly, on the axe of labor,
     Let the sunbeams dance,
Better than the flash of sabre
     Or the gleam of lance!
Strike! With every blow is given
     Freer sun and sky,
And the long-hid earth to heaven
     Looks, with wondering eye!

Loud behind us grow the murmurs
     Of the age to come;
Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers,
     Bearing harvest home!

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