An Appeal to America on Behalf of the Belgian Destitute by Thomas Hardy

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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 poorly soothe 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 loud need: / We know that nearer first your duty lies; / But-is it much to ask that you let plead / Your lovingkindness with you-wooing-wise- / Albeit that aught you owe, and must repay, / No man can say?

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