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     Leaned on his staff, and wept to find
His seat o'erthrown.

Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes,
     O'erhung with paly locks of gold,
‘Why smite,’ he asked in sad surprise,
     ‘The fair, the old? ’

Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke,
     Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam;
Shuddering and sick of heart I woke,
     As from a dream.

I looked: aside the dust-cloud rolled,
     The Waster seemed the Builder too;
Upspringing from the ruined Old
     I saw the New.

Twas 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.

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