A WASTED LAND.

ALAS, for a sound is heard Of a bitterly broken song; Grievous is every word; And the burden is weary and long Like the waves between ebb and flow; And it comes when the winds are low, Or whenever the night is nigh, And the world hath space for a sigh. It was in the time of fruit; When the peach began to pout, And the purple grape to shine, And the leaves were a threadbare suit For the blushing blood of the vine, And the spoilers were about And the viper glode at the root: —She came, and with her hand, With her mouth, yea, and her eyes She hath ravaged all the land; Its beauty shall no more rise: She hath drawn the wine to her lip. For a mere wanton sip: Lo, where the vine-branch lies; Lo, where the drained grapes drip. Her feet left many a stain; And her lips left many a sting; She will never come again, And the fruit of everything Is a canker or a pain: And a memory doth crouch Like an asp,—yea, in each part Where she hath left her touch,— Lying in wait for the heart.