“O King, on the wind is a wail.
“Feebly the host of the hungry poor
Lift hands at the gate with a cry:
Grizzled and gaunt they come over the moor,
Blasted by earth and sky.”
“Ho!” cried the king to the thanes, “make speed—
Carry this food to the gates—
Off with the boar and the cask of mead—
Leave but a loaf on the plates.”
Still came a cry from the hollow night: