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136 Whom have you slaughtered lately, European headsman? Whose is that blood upon you, so wet and sticky?

I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs, I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts, Ghosts of dead lords, uncrowned ladies, impeached
 * ministers, rejected kings,

Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains, and
 * the rest.

I see those who in any land have died for the good
 * cause,

The seed is spare, nevertheless the crop shall never
 * run out,

(Mind you, foreign kings, priests, the crop shall
 * never run out.)

I see the blood washed entirely away from the axe, Both blade and helve are clean, They spirt no more the blood of European nobles
 * they clasp no more the necks of queens.

I see the headsman withdraw and become useless, I see the scaffold untrodden and mouldy—I see no
 * longer any axe upon it,

I see the mighty and friendly emblem of the power of
 * my own race, the newest largest race.

America! I do not vaunt my love for you, I have what I have.

The axe leaps! The solid forest gives fluid utterances,