What mean the gladness of the plain,

This joy of eve and morn,

The mirth that shakes the beard of grain

And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;

But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain;

She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear
Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,

She shares th' eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn;
For all the tears of blood we sow

She waits the rich return.

The hearts that blossom like her flowers,

And ripen like her corn.

O, give to us, in times like these,

The vision of her eyes;

And make her fields and fruited trees

Our golden prophecies!

O, give to us her finer ear!

Above this stormy din,

We too would hear the bells of cheer

Ring peace and freedom in!

K

NOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land!

How, when the Chian's cup of guilt

Was full to overflow, there came

God's justice in the sword of flame

That, red with slaughter to its hilt, Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand?

*It is recorded that the Chians, when subjugated by Mithridates of Cappadocia, were delivered up to their own slaves, to be carried away captive to Colohis. Athenæus considers this a just punishment for their wickedness in first introducing the slave-trade into Greece. From this ancient villany of the Chians the proverb arose, "The Chian hath bought himself a master."

The heavens are still and far; But, not unheard of awful Jove,

The sighing of the island slave

Was answered, when the Egean wave

The keels of Mithridates clove,

And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war.

"Robbers of Chios! hark,"

The victor cried, "to Heaven's decree! Pluck your last cluster from the vine, Drain your last cup of Chian wine; Slaves of your slaves, your doom shall be, In Colchian mines by Phasis rolling dark."

Then rose the long lament

From the hoar sea-god's dusky caves:

The priestess rent her hair and cried,

"Woe ! woe! The gods are sleeplesseyed!"

And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves, The lords of Chios into exile went.

"The gods at last pay well,"

So Hellas sang her taunting song, "The fisher in his net is caught,

The Chian hath his master bought "; And isle from isle, with laughter long, Took up and sped the mocking parable.

Once more the slow, dumb years
Bring their avenging cycle round,
And, more than Hellas taught of old,

Our wiser lesson shall be told,

Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned,

To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their

blood and tears.