En el campo.....

 SPAIN. ——— Out of murk the heaviest clouds, Out of the feudal wrecks, and heap'd-up skeletons of Kings, 


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SPAIN.

———

Out of murk the heaviest clouds,
Out of the feudal wrecks, and heap'd-up skeletons of
Kings,

 


Out of that old entire European debris—the shatter'd
mummeries,
Ruin'd cathedrals, crumble of palaces, tombs of
priests,
Lo! Freedom's features, fresh, undimm'd, look
forth—the same immortal face looks forth;
(A glimpse as of thy Mother's face, Columbia,
A flash significant as of a sword,
Beaming towards thee.)

Nor think we forget thee, Maternal;
Lagg'st thou so long? Shall the clouds close again
upon thee?
Ah, but thou hast Thyself now appear'd to us—we
know thee;
Thou hast given us a sure proof, the glimpse of Thy-
self;
Thou waitest there, as everywhere, thy time.


WALT WHITMAN. Washington, March 22, 1873.

 



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