Glad tidings of unpruned but pleasant lands,
Washed by thy surges, like those spies of yore
Who brought ripe grapes from Eschol to the bands
By Moses led across the desert sands.
Regardless of the sons of Anak, soon
Bold men, of dauntless hearts and iron hands,
Left home, while life was in its active noon,
To hear the forest wind thy flood’s deep voice attune.
They fled not, like scourged vassals in the night,
From dungeon, rack and chain, with footstep fleet: