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more that city’s pirate barks Molest the distant waves; No more the Moslem idler marks The sale of Christian slaves. And yet how much is left undone These city walls within! What though the victory may be won, Its fruit is yet to win.

What should the fruit of victory be? What spoil should it command?— Commerce upon the sweeping sea, And peace upon the land. As when the crimson sunset ends, In twilight’s quiet hours, The fertilizing dew ascends, That feeds the fruits and flowers.

A quiet time hath Europe now, And she should use that time, The seed of general good to sow, Eternal and sublime! Mighty is now the general scope To mortal views assigned; Direct from heaven is the hope That worketh for mankind.

Too many objects worth its care The mind has left unwon; But who is there that shall despair Knowing what has been done? The Press, that on the moral world Has risen, like a star, The leaves of light in darkness furled Spread with its aid afar.

Far may it spread!—its influence Is giant in its might: The moral world’s intelligence Lives on its guiding light. To teach, to liberate, to save, Is empire’s noblest worth. Such be our hope across the wave, Our triumph o’er the earth!