And some in Russian waters lie, 

 And others in the seas which are 



The portals to the East, or by 



The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. 



O wandering graves! O restless sleep! 



O silence of the sunless day! 

 O still ravine! O stormy deep! 



Give up your prey! Give up your prey! 



And thou whose wounds are never healed. 

 Whose weary race is never won, 



O Cromw ell's England! must thou yield 

 For every inch of ground a son ? 



Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crownedhead, 

 Change thy glad song to song of pain; 



Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, 

 And will not yield them back again. 



Wave and wild wind and foreign shore 

 Possess the flower of English land — 



Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, 

 Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. 



What profit now that we have bound 



The whole round world with nets of gold. 



If hidden in our heart is found 

 The care that groweth never old? 



The 



Human 



Harvest 



[97] 



