THE CRY OF THE LAND. 269 



THE CRT OF THE LAND. 



Oh, come, from all the winds desired, beloved. 



Besought of dying Hope, delay no more, 

 Nor spurn the cry of sore extremity ; 

 Delay no more ! 



Stoop low, ye dark-brow'd messengers of Heav'r, 



Press your moist kiss upon the sleeping earth. 

 And wake the blessed fragrance of the field — 

 The spell-bound field. 



Cumber no more the full contented sea, 

 Nor fleet so fickle to the distant hills, 

 Nor stand with voiceless Hght'ning in the north : 

 Not so ! Not so ! 



'Tis ill to dally thus with our dismay, 



To us ! to us ! Oars be the hollow eyes, 

 The hearts that ache with watching of your ways, 

 To us ! To us ! 



Ah ! linger not, for it is ill with us. 



Oar little children take our heart away ; 



They kill us, these lean cheeks, these wasted 



hands — 



These wasted hands. 



