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OU have waited, Priests of Ireland, until the hour was late: You have stood with folded arms until 'twas asked—Why do they wait? By the fever and the famine you have seen your flocks grow thin, Till the whisper hissed through Ireland that your silence was a sin. You have looked with tearless eyes on fleets of exile-laden ships, And the hands that stretched toward Ireland brought no tremor to your lips;