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 The martial draft still wastes the peasants' farms— A dozen kings,—five million men in arms; The earth mapped out estate-like, hedged with steel; In neighboring schools the children bred to feel Unnatural hate, disjoined in speech and creed; The forges roaring for the armies' need; The cities builded by the people lined With scowling forts and roadways undermined; At every bastioned frontier, every State, Suspicion, sworded, standing by the gate!

But turn our eyes from these oppressive lands: Behold, one country all defenceless stands. One nation-continent, from East to West, With riches heaped upon her bounteous breast; Her mines, her marts, her skill of hand and brain, That bring Aladdin's dreams to light again!

Where sleep the conquerors? Here is chance for spoil: Such unwatched fields, such endless, priceless toil!