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With freedom's seed the desert sowing, I walked before the morning star; From pure and guiltless fingers throwing— Where slavish plows had left a scar— The fecund seed, the procreator; Oh vain and sad disseminator, I learned then what lost labors are. . . . Graze if you will, you peaceful nations, Who never rouse at honor's horn! Should flocks heed freedom's invocations? Their part is to be slain or shorn, Their dower the yoke their sires have worn Through snug and sheepish generations.