TUNIS.
No 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!
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