By THOMAS HARDY.
Seven millions stand
Emaciate, in that ancient Delta-land:
We here, full charged with our own maimed and dead,
And coiled in throbbing conflicts slow and sore,
Can soothe how slight these ails unmerited
Of souls forlorn upon the facing shore!
Where naked, gaunt, in endless band on band
Seven millions stand.
No man can say
To your great country that, with scant delay,
You must, perforce, ease them in their sore need:
We know that nearer first your duty lies;
But--is it much to ask that you let plead
Your loving kindness with you--wooing wise--
Albeit that aught you owe and must repay
No man can say?